A Parody in Death
by Emperor Andross
Summary: A small matter of being dead is not enough to stop Tom Barnaby once he latches on to a case, and with the help of a bemused Troy, a sarcastic pathologist, and a host of other distinctly odd (even by Midsomer standards) characters; he may just get to the bottom of it.


An eerie moon hang over Midsummer Green in the late hours of the night, wisps of clouds danced in front if it from time to time, giving it a further ghostly appearance. The night was almost completely still in the village; being protected due to its setting in a bowl framed by a ring of hills — only the sound of the wind in the trees at the top of the ridge broke the otherwise silent environment.

Across the moonlit main street, a dark figure stole, seemingly made of the shadow that it darted from and to. Obviously not wanting to be seen, the person crept along a dirt lane under a shaggy hedge before entering into a small yard with a low brick wall out the front, capped by a white metal lattice. The White lattice gate creaked only slightly as the person opened it and stole up towards the front door. Now, being closer, loud thudding music could be heard emanating from within. The figure paused slightly a few feet from the door, rearranging their dark clothing, but then stepped up and rapped smartly.

At once the music from within stopped, "Coming!" called a voice before a pattering of approaching feet. The door was flung open by a man in his early twenties, wearing a simple T-shirt and shorts. The late night caller was illuminated by the lights of the front hall, revealing them to be dressed in a full length black trench coat; equally black wellingtons clad their feet and the raincoat's hood was pulled up over their head. Nevertheless, the young man recognized them. "Oh it's you." He said; then added in confusion, "What are you doing here?"

The figure's response was to reach under one side of their raincoat and pull out a long, shimmering, flat sliver of steel — a samurai sword. With deliberate pause they raised it high above their head, their steady hands gleaming white in the moonlight. The young man's face turned from confusion to fear, his eyes bulging as he stared at the deadly sharp sword in those pale hands. Just as the sword began to fall however, he suddenly broke form his stupor; "Wait!" he yelled out, "You can't kill me! You don't have your gloves on!"

With a grunt of frustration, the would-be killer tucked the sword under their arm and roughly pulled a pair of leather gloves (black of course) out of their pocket, before stuffing their fingers into them. "That's better." Nodded the young man approvingly.

Once again the sword rose, and once again the victim's eyes bulged with fright, but this time nothing would hold back the murderer, a metallic swish echoed across the town, followed half a second later by two rather final sounding 'thumps'.

An organ played mournfully in the cemetery of Couston. Groups of people dressed in black slowly filed into the ancient church and sat down, all with sad expressions on their faces — a funeral procession. In the front row of the old church were Joyce and Cully Barnaby, and Ben Jones, as well as George Bullard. Many other people were there, from all over the Midsomer County, from Badger's Drift; and Midsomer Mallow; and Midsomer Magna and many other places besides, some as far flung as Dover or Wales.

"Welcome." Called the Vicar in a strong voice as the last stragglers slipped into the back of church. "We are here to celebrate the life of Thomas Gregory Barnaby." He said, nodding slightly to a coffin which sat just behind and to the side of him. "Known as Tom to his wife and friends, he was a policeman by trade — a Chief Detective Inspector in fact — and this took up much of his life. He was utterly committed to justice, which makes it all the more upsetting that he died as he did; murdered by a coward who would rather be shot by the surrounding police than surrender to justice.

"Tom helped many people during his life, many of whom I can see here to day... And I kno—" The sharp tone of a ringing mobile phone echoed through the stone church, interrupting the service as surely as a gunshot. Curious and in some cases angry glances were traded amongst the mourners as the ring continued.

"Oh for Heaven's sake!" cried the Vicar after several seconds, "Turn it off! This is a _funeral!_"

But the ring continued, even as everyone in the church hurriedly checked their own phones in case they were inadvertently the ones to blame for the disturbance. But the longer the sound went on the more it was apparent that it was coming from the direction of the altar; from the coffin. With a soft creak, the coffin's lid opened, and out sprang Tom Barnaby, alive as you or me and bolted towards the front door of the church, holding his mobile phone to his ear. "Sorry, I have to go. There's been a murder! I'll try to be back!" he called over his shoulder as he left the church, leaving a crowd of dumbfounded Funeral goers behind him.

**MIDSOMER**  
**MURDERS**

**A Parody in Death**

Many villages were small in the county of Midsomer, but of all of them, Midsomer Green was one of the smallest. Situated on a T-intersection, the town consisted of perhaps 30 residents, totalling up to 16 houses; there was a small pub in the village owned by a man the name of Robert 'Bobby' Gallop, across the road from that, was a small general store and a tiny police station. Across the other, main road from them was the local cricket club that barely managed to get enough players for its eleven each week. At the end of the oval furthest from the road where the modest clubrooms, and down the side of the oval was a long dirt lane.

The whole town stopped and stared as a black Mercedes roared down the main road alongside the oval and turned onto the intersecting road, stopping a few yards past the pub — opposite the General Store and police station. Before the car had even stopped moving, Detective Chief Inspector Tom Barnaby leapt out and strode over towards the front of the police station, where an ambulance, several police cars and people walking around in white coveralls were all awaiting. One man, in his early thirties and wearing a suite saw the car stop and immediately started towards Barnaby.

"Tom!" said the man exuberantly, "It's been far too long!"

"Indeed it has, Gavin Troy." Said Barnaby, giving Troy's hand a quick pump. "I must say I'm surprised to see you in this neck of the woods."

"So am I." Replied Gavin, "I was requested by Causton CID for this case; they seemed to think that you wouldn't be here."

"That's because they're idiots, Troy." Replied Barnaby drolly.

Gavin stared, "You've changed, Sir."

"As the world changes, we must change with it!" Said Barnaby in a sing-song voice that seemed to indicate that it was a quote from somewhere, "Who's the victim?"

"Oh," said Troy, starting out of the confusion that was doing its level best to engulf him, "The Victim's name is Rodger Nogood." He replied, flipping open his notebook, "Local muso, plays in a band with one Peter Dogood — they're rather unpopular here apparently. He was found with duct-tape wrapped around his neck."

Barnaby nodded sagely, "And who found him?"

"The local officer, Sir, Sergeant Thorps. He's gone home with shock."

"Slacker..." muttered Barnaby.

"Anyway, Sir." Said Gavin, "This shouldn't take long to solve, there's what, thirty people in the town, at the most...?"

"And every one of them will have an excellent reason to kill him — just you wait and see." Said Tom dramatically, "From the jealous band partner, to the cheated girlfriend, to the strict classicalist who's offended by their attire, to the disgruntled pub owner who hasn't had the tab paid, to the little old lady who lives down the lane who doesn't like their music."

"You're over reacting surely, sir." Said Gavin as they walked over to where the pathologist was crouching over the body. "Ah, this is Dr. Slicer, Sir. He's my regular pathologist," He added as the white clad man turned away from the body and stood up.

"Doctor Slicer. There's something a touch unfortunate about that name for a pathologist." Remarked Barnaby.

"I suppose it is — I never thought about it like that before." Said Dr Slicer. "It's no wonder all the relatives give me strange looks at the mortuary."

"What's wrong with this man, Doc?" asked Troy, trying to steer the conversation back onto murder.

"Well that's obvious, Troy." Declared Barnaby before the doctor could answer, "He's dead."

"Are you sure?" asked the pathologist dryly.

"Fine, how was he _killed_ then?" asked Troy, giving his former boss an irritated look.

"Bishh, you'll be wanting to know who killed him next."

"Uh, I was asking the Doctor, sir."

"Well _excuse me_." Grumbled Barnaby, continuing to mutter to himself as he looked off in the opposite direction. "What time is it?" he asked suddenly.

"About eleven o'clock. Why, what have you found?" asked Troy, noticing his former boss staring off in the direction of the pub across the street.

"Excellent!" said Barnaby, rubbing his hands together. "Happy hour!"

Troy stared at him, "So?"

"Uh, not to interrupt or anything... but I've got better things to do than stand around here all day." Called Dr. Slicer.

"Oh yes, sorry Doctor, what was the cause of death?"

"It _is_ rather obvious." Said the pathologist, "Once you have a proper look at him; Decapitation." He continued, pulling away the duct-tape around the victim's neck — the head rolled away and into the gutter.

"Aurgh!" cried Troy, "What kind of psychopath cuts people's heads off and then puts them back together with sticky-tape?"

"The barmy variety." Sniggered Barnaby. "Or maybe this chap was in the habit of losing his head if it wasn't '_taped'_ on."

"I don't know that that's very funny, Sir." Frowned Troy.

"Well I do." Said Barnaby dismissively, "And I also know that this pub is selling half-price beer." He added, walking across the street towards it.

"What?! Sir, where are you going?"

"For a _drink_." Responded Barnaby tersely as he started climbing the narrow and long ramp that stretched from the footpath, over an exotic grasses garden, and up to the pub's veranda. "As Obi-Wan Kenobi would say."

"I thought he said 'the Force will be with you'." Said Troy, starting after him.

"I'll just leave this guy here then, shall I?" asked Dr Slicer dryly.

"Take him back to the morgue; I want your report A.S.A.P.!" called Gavin over his shoulder as he hurried after his onetime boss. "What do you hope to find in here, Sir?" he asked as he caught up with him.

"Didn't I teach you anything, Troy? A small town like this; the barman'll have all the goss — and more importantly; I'm reliably informed they have the best dark ale in Midsomer here."

"But don't you want to see the victim's house first?"

"The house'll keep. I'm sure it'll still be there in an hour or two..." he trailed off as they came face to face with a thin man with a pointed face and snow white balding hair. All three of them stopped stock still and glared each other, each wanting the other to step aside. "Can I help you? Sir?" snapped Tom at last.

"WOOOOOOUUUUUULD YOU PLEASE MOOVVEEE ASIDE?" Sung the man with the lungs of a hurricane. Both Barnaby and Troy grasped their ears in agony as they tried in vain to block out the tremendously loud and incredibly badly pitched voice. The man took the opportunity to push past them; knocking Troy clean over the rail and onto a particularly prickly grass below — Barnaby seemed not to notice.

"Make a note to book that man for disturbing the peace." He said, not realising that Troy wasn't there, before continuing up the ramp. At the top was another man, staring after the retreating first man. As he saw Barnaby approach him he called out to him:

_ "That poor fellow's name's Singing Sam,_

_ Who like a sandwich stuffed with ham,_

_ All of his nieces,_

_ Love pounds to pieces_

_ And wait for him to kick the can."_

"What is this?" asked Troy as he hobbled up behind Barnaby, picking grass seeds out of his jacket, "The 'Ludicrous linguist's' club or something?"

"What Troy here means, is explain yourself, or we'll charge you with wasting precious police time — time which could much better off be being spent drinking!" Said Barnaby smugly

_"Then Hello then, Guy's me' name._

_ And beer drink'n is my game!_

_ I'll drink an ale,_

_ 'ther dark or pale_

_ Just see what it's done for me brain!"_

Troy looked at him uncomfortably, "Aurgh, I don't think I'll ever enjoy a beer again..." he muttered to no one in particular.

Guy glared at him, but then turned back to Barnaby and continued in his limericks,

_"Welcome, welcome to our humble village,_

_ It sickens me that there's been such killage,_

_ All around,_

_ dead abound,_

_ And tourists'll go over the ridge."_

"Well mister 'Guy'." Said Barnaby, "If drinking's your game, why don't you tell me what beer has fame?"

"Not you too, sir!" groaned Troy.

"Not me? What's that you say? Just what is up with you today?"

"I'm afraid it's that rhyming, Sir; it is going to give my brain a stir." Replied Gavin Troy, he clasped his mouth in horror, "Damn, now I'm doing it!"

"Would you go and take the witness statements already, Troy?" snapped Barnaby. "I've got to see a man about a beer, so _move it_ boy!"

Troy shook his head as he walked through the door and into the bar of the pub. "What's gotten into everyone today..." he muttered to himself, "This whole village is barmy." As he stepped through the doorway, he could have sworn he heard 'Guy' start yet another limerick outlining the different choices of beer.

A few other people were seated around the small room as Gavin stepped up to the bar. The barman, a portly bald man in his mid forties, wearing a white waistcoat, stepped out of the back room as Gavin rapped his knuckles on the wooden benchtop. "What can I get you, Sir?" he asked as Gavin reached into his pocket for his warrant card.

"I'm Detective Inspector Troy." He said, holding the small wallet up for the barman to see, "I was wondering if you could help me with any information regarding the murder of Rodger Nogood."

"Oh yes, dreadful business that." Said the man, "Name's Bobby." He extended a hand, which Troy shook, "I can't believe that such a thing happened in our little village—I mean sure I know it happens all the time in places like Badger's Drift and Midsomer Pava and places like that, but here?"

"Can you think of anyone who'd want to kill him?" Asked Troy.

"NO! Gracious not. I mean sure, a lot of people hated that band of his... and I'll pay the fact that he was cheating on his girlfriend, and the fact that he didn't actually do anything for the village, there was also the argument with the neighbours about that gate; and there were the rumours that he was smuggling money, (Troy's mouth had fallen open) or that he was an Ex-MI5 officer with all sorts of people after him... But seriously, I can't think of _anyone_ who'd have the _slightest_ reason to kill him."

"Nah. Imagine that." Drawled a woman sitting at the bar, obviously rather drunk.

"And could you think of anyone who'd like to kill him, Ms..."

"Dumpé, miss Clara Dumpé."

"Right Miss Dumpé," said Troy writing the name down in his notebook.

"That's spelt 'Dumped'." Called the barman absently as he passed a tall man two humungous glasses of a Dark Ale.

"Ah, right." Said Troy, making the correction. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Guy left the bar again with the two drinks. Seemed that Barnaby had gone for the dark ale after all.

"Rodger was my boyfriend." Sniffed the woman, "'cept it seems like I was the only one in the whole village who didn't know that he was cheating on me. And before you ask, I didn't knock him off, but I bloody well should have!"

"Ah." Said Troy in understanding. Turning back to Bobby, Gavin asked: "Did anything unusual happen last night?" he asked "Anyone looking nervous or shifty like?"

"Nah, nothing of the sort." Said the Barman frowning, "But there was one thing... nah, probably not worth mentioning."

"Go on," Prompted Troy.

"Oh alright, someone came in here dragging a body last night, 'bout quarter past 'leven, nothing exciting."

Troys mouth was dangling again. "You say that like it's a regular thing." He got out at last. Bobby smiled, "Not at all." He said.

"And who was it? Did you recognise them?"

"Na, didn't look did I? 'Don't get involved' me ol' ma' used to say to me, she did." Bobby Said. "Still obviously it must have been Mister Nogood... poor chap."

"But —" Began Troy.

Clara burst into a shrill laugh beside him. "Poor chap?! As if! You hated him just as much as anyone else did, Bobby, what with 'im not paying his tab for so long."

"Now..." Troy tried again, but was again interrupted.

"Now, Miss, that's not _entirely_ true." Said Bobby uncomfortably...

"But what about the person who dragged the body in!? Surely you recognised them?!"

"Na, couldn't see their face could I? All covered up by 'ere hood it was." Said the bartender.

"Well you should have at least called the police, why didn't you do that?"

"Well, that's really very simple—" The sentence was punctured by a frantic scream from outside.

Troy bolted for the door and was nearly cleaned up when Singing Sam came running back in with his hair looking like it had been caught in a blast of his own singing. _"THEEAAARRRRSSSSS AAA BODYYY ONNN THHEEE ROOOOAAAAAAADDDDDD!"_ he sang, in a voice if possible even more horrible than before. Somehow, Sam had managed to convey shock, tragedy, a sprinkling of mystery and a dollop of drama in his simple line, and with the resulting theatrical soufflé spinning around his head, Troy darted out of the pub to see for himself.

The body was spread eagle on the pavement. Once again, taped up necks seemed to be flavour of the month, and the body was arranged with the torso lying just inches from the front door of the police station. Troy and Dr Slicer crouched over the body while Tom hung back a little bit, glancing around as if the body was just an everyday sight in the village. "Well we didn't manage to get far without a second murder." Said Barnaby, idly flicking an imaginary soufflé crumb from his jacket, "I don't know why we even bother coming until there's been at _least_ three murders; we never catch them before then anyway."

"Are you sure you're okay, sir? You've been behaving very strangely today..."

"Not at all Troy, it's everyone _else_ who's strange today."

"You haven't been slipped marijuana again have you?" asked Troy, unconvinced.

"Bishh, now you're just being silly. Pester the doctor instead."

"Method of murder is the same," said Slicer to the two detectives (though Barnaby was looking in the other direction) as he straightened up, "Decapitation by a single stroke with a sharp instrument."

"Argh, this guy's a psycho." Muttered Troy.

"You mentioned that." Commented Tom absently.

"And I'll keep mentioning it because it's true!" Said Troy.

"Ah, but how do you know it was a guy, Troy?" Said Barnaby, still looking wistfully at the pub, "It could be a girl, or an it, or perhaps even a they! You never can be too sure with murderers these days!"

"Uh, of course, Sir. Should we go and have a look at the first victim's house now?"

"I suppose we'd better." Sighed Barnaby, at last looking away from the pub. "Damn! And I never got to decide which beer to have for seconds either…" He stalked off in the direction of the dirt road that ran down the side of the cricket club and which held most of the town's inhabitants. Troy followed a small distance behind him, exceedingly and increasingly worried about his former boss' current behaviour; at just how far his mind seemed to have slipped.

"It's this one here, Sir." Said Troy, as they approached the penultimate house along the street.

"Really? Are you sure it's this one with the crime scene tape all over it and not the little old lady down the street's house?"

"Well when you put it like that —"

Barnaby didn't stop as he passed through the gate, he ducked under the tape covering the door and stepped into the front hall. The carpet had been stained with a pool of blood, but Barnaby took no notice of it whatsoever other than to gingerly step over it with an expression of extreme distaste. Troy was more measured, taking one look at the scene and then closing his eyes and swallowing back his breakfast which was threatening to make a sudden and dramatic reëntrance into the broader world. His food once again settled where it belonged, Troy again looked down at the mess, taking in the splatter on the walls and ceiling.

"So this was obviously where the deed was done." He said loudly, hoping to bring his former boss back into the room, but Barnaby wouldn't be drawn.

"Obviously our killer doesn't have the slightest appreciation for interior decorating, the red clashes terribly with the orange walls in there, it's blue in here, would have gone much better." His former governor's voice bellowed from the next room.

Gavin swallowed pre-emptively before carefully walking around the puddle, entering the sitting room to find that his boss' observation of the wall colour to be perfectly accurate. They were indeed blue. Glancing around the more personal objects of the room, Troy concluded that it was where Mr Nogood must have practiced his music. Several instruments including a drum set and a electric guitar were lying on the floor, the guitar was propped up against the floral patterned reclining chair, suggesting that he may have been playing it before being interrupted by his killer, and then... Troy swallowed again and rubbed his throat uncomfortably.

Tom meanwhile was busily rummaging through the dead man's desk, squealing excitedly every now and then as he found something of interest. The rest was flung unceremoniously over his shoulder at regular intervals.

Shaking his head at the scene, Troy did a quick once over of the rest of the house, but found nothing other than a few photographs of Mr Nogood and Mr Dogood, posing with various instruments.

"It's like he didn't have a life outside of his music." Mused Troy, as he walked back into the sitting room. He turned to Barnaby, who was looking at a photograph hanging by the door into the kitchen, but seemed to be staring straight through it. "Sir?"

Barnaby didn't respond, his lips were moving slightly as they often did when he was thinking hard about something. Often it was a sure sign that he had figured out the identity of the killer. Sure enough: "I'VE GOT IT!" He cried suddenly, causing Troy to jump despite being almost expecting it.

"You have?!" Asked Troy eagerly. True, it meant that his former DCI was the one who would get the credit in the investigation, but at least they'd put the killer behind bars, right? "Who is it then? Who's the murderer?"

"That's a very good question, Troy; I want you to go away and think about it and come back when you've got the answer!" Said Barnaby, still wearing his cheesy grin.

"What?!" Asked a flabbergasted Troy, "But Sir, isn't that what you were just in jubilation about?"

"Oh that? No, I'd just decided what kind of beer I was going to have!" He replied happily.

Troy could have fallen over. Instead he just buried his head in his hands and wondered whether he should ring the psychiatric ward at Causton Hospital or whether he should give his boss one last chance — Surely his sudden obsession with beer wasn't natural.

"Well, off you go then, Troy, you're not going to solve the case by floating around here." Prodded Barnaby, indicating towards the door.

With a long suffering sigh, Gavin exited back onto the street, resolving to call the hospital as soon as he'd caught the killer.

* * *

By lunch time, Troy was a few steps from screaming in frustration. The visit to Peter Dogood's house had been no more informative than his friend's, and no one else he had spoken to had any kind of idea what might have happened. Which left just the general store, before he'd have to risk going back to the pub.

As Troy walked along the main street beside the wall which the pub was built up on to, he spied his boss talking to an old lady who was standing in her doorway, leaning heavily on a walking stick. Not wanting to speak to his boss right at that particular moment, he ducked down behind a convenient Hebe. "Ah Troy," His boss called, "What are you doing behind that bush?"

Troy straightened up guiltily, "Uh looking for the murder weapon." He made up on the spot, before cursing himself for how unconvincing it sounded. Fortunately Barnaby seemed not to notice. "Everything going well? I'm just going to have lunch with Lol here, do make sure you apologize to Guy for me, won't you."

"Lol, is that short for Lola?" Asked Gavin in what he hoped was a friendly voice.

"That's Little Old Lady to you, buster!" Croaked the old woman loudly, "The nerve of young people today."

"Yes, well never mind, how about that tea, Lol." Barnaby said, guiding the old lady into the house. "Don't get yourself into any trouble will you, Troy."

"That's it, I'm not coming back to Midsomer again for a _very_ long time." Gavin muttered to himself as he continued up the street shaking his head, "I'd forgotten just how mad everyone is down here. Nutters and more nutters. Even Barnaby's cracked now."

"You might wanna see sssome'n about that." Said Clara as she unsteadily tottered past him in the opposite direction, "You know that t-talking to yourshelf is the first sign o' hatters." She wagged her finger drunkenly at him, leaning on a nearby signpost. A frown crossed her face, "Madness, that is." She corrected.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, sigh, and burst into aggravated tears all at once, Troy hurried on before one of his urges became too strong to control. Exhaling a sigh of relief as he made the door of the shop, he crossed the threshold and walked to the desk at the back, ringing the bell when no one immediately came out to greet him.

"Well helloo there handsome!" Said a oily voice as a short man with a thin face and immaculate hair stepped out from behind some shelves. Troy recoiled, five years of working as an inspector had not tempered his feelings about gays. "Charles Terrance." The other man introduced himself, holding out a hand to shake.

"Uh, Detective Inspector Troy." He grimaced, deliberately not taking the proffered hand, "About the murder out the front this morning."

"Oh, yess; dreadful business isn't it? Fine pair of young men they were too. A little modern for my tastes, but well, you can't help but look at such fine specimens can you."

"I wouldn't know." Gasped Troy, extremely uncomfortable, "Did you see anyone suspicious hanging around last night."

Charles laughed a trifle chillingly, "Dear, everyone is suspicious around here." He smiled slightly, "Why, I may be the sanest person you'll find in this place."

"Anything more suspicious than usual." Troy clarified, ignoring the sweat beading on his brow.

"Well, sweetie, if you _really_ want to know what's going on about this village, you'd better go and talk to galloping Guy," Charles sighed, "He knows a surprising amount about the inner workings of this village, one wonders how." He smiled at Troy with a slight tilt to his head, "Of course, dear, if you want to know anything else that _I_ might be able to help you with..."

"No, no, that's quite okay." Gavin said hurriedly, backing up towards the door, "I'll go and talk to Guy as you suggested." He reached the door and flung it open, barely remembering to leave himself with some dignity by not running.

With a breath of relief at having escaped, Troy hurried over to the pub, taking advantage of the this time empty ramp to reach the patio. Guy was still sitting where they had left him, in the shade of one of the umbrellas. He looked up as Troy approached him, and began to speak in limerick again, much to the detriment of Gavin's nerves.

"_Welcome back Inspector Troy,_

_Any luck did you enjoy?_

_While I've been here_

_and swigged a beer?_

_And say, just where's Tom, my boy?"_

"No, I've had no luck, and Barnaby's off to lunch." Replied Troy, plopping himself down across from the eccentric man, "I've been told that you know more than most in this village. Do you know anything about the murders?"

"_Well yes, Perhaps I know a thing or two,_

_But first a beer, and maybe one for you?_

_I've just got to dash,_

_I'll be back in a flash,_

_And then last night's proceedings I'll run through."_

"But—" Began Troy, but before he could stop him, Guy had leapt to his feet and had sped inside. True to his word though, he returned less than a minute later baring two pints of beer.

"_There you go me fine youngish man,_

_You look to need one, tell I can,_

_Here take a swig,_

_it's not that big,_

_And better I'm sure you'll be agan."_

Troy sighed and did as he was bade, his mental soufflé having been turned to mush some time ago, perhaps the beer would revitalise him.

"_Now a murder I have never seen,_

_The thought alone just turns me green,_

_But help I will,_

_you just hold still,_

_I'll think of something yet, I mean."_

Gavin groaned, but then a spark lit his memory, in most cases he would think that it was self evident, but the people in this village seemed to have a rather weird idea of what was normal and what was not, "Actually, you know what? Bobby mentioned, that someone came in here dragging a body last night, did you happen to see who that was?" He took another sip of his beer—it actually wasn't bad.

A gleam lit Guy's eyes, plainly he did know who Gavin was talking about, he paused for a moment, with a thoughtful expression, then started speaking again.

"_The one you're after is a doll,_

_she always makes the bestest roll,_

_but a body she had_

_Don't you dare call me mad_

_The name that she goes by... is Lol!"_

Troy stopped, his beer halfway to his mouth, "Lol?!" He cried "You mean the little old lady?!"

"_The very same, is who I mean,_

_Though it brings me pain, she I seen,_

_Whatever I feel_

_The thing was real —"_

But Gavin had already flung himself to his feet and was dashing down the ramp back to the street, not even stopping to apologise when he knocked Sam flying off the walkway as he rushed past.

He frantically raced up the street to Lol's house, his mind a whirl of horrible things that Barnaby could have been subjected to. It didn't bare thinking about, what would she do to him? Strychnine in the tea? Rat Poison in the scones? Would she fall back onto her preferred method of decapitation with a samurai sword? Or would she have rigged the guest chair with a ten thousand volt charge? He just hoped he was able to get there in time.

He pounded up the steps and burst through the door, dashing into the conservatory out the back, "Sir!" He began in warning.

"—are under arrest for the Murders of Rodger Nogood and Peter Dogood. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. And by the way, those tea biscuits where lovely — you must give me the recipe sometime."

Troy stood gaping, ragged breaths from his recent run escaping from his heaving chest as he beheld the scene in front of him. Barnaby and Lol where both glaring at each other from five paces, seemingly oblivious to Gavin's sudden and none too quiet appearance. "Ah Troy!" Said Barnaby, noticing him at last, "About time. Make yourself useful and put some cuffs on Miss Little Old Lady will you. Miss Lol, I'm afraid you're going to have to come with us down to station."

Troy blinked in utter disbelief.

* * *

The interview room was the usual one in Causton Police station; if Gavin thought that it was suspiciously vacant he didn't mention so, only a basic few staff were around, and all of them looked in surprise as Barnaby, Lol and he walked through the station, Of course, it wasn't everyday that an elderly lady was dragged through the police station, swearing profanities profusely, but still. Once in the interview room though, she quietened right up, in fact she said nothing at all as they made a cup of coffee for her and themselves and then set up the recorder to tape the interview.

"So, Lol, apart from trying to cause an apocalyptic decor setting in mister Nogood and Dogood's houses, why did you do it?" Asked Barnaby, straight away taking control of the interview.

No answer.

"We have ways of making you talk you know." Said Barnaby sympathetically.

"Sir, I really don't know that we can say things..." Began Troy in alarm.

"Shoosh, Troy." He leaned forward slightly, favouring her with a friendly smile, "How about _I_ tell you what happened?"

Still no answer.

"I'll take that as a yes then." Said Barnaby, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "Well then, I'd saayyy..." He trailed off purposefully, "I'd say!" He cried standing up suddenly and sending his chair skidding back across the floor. Then to Troy's absolute horror, his boss leaped up onto the table, put his hand on his chest and began to sing at the top of his voice, as loudly as Singing Sam ever had.

"_It was on one fine evening just a couple of nights ago,_

_When it was Midsomer and there wasn't any snow!_

_those two blokes and their music, they did annoy you so,_

_and thus you decided to give murdering a go!_

_And so you went around that night with Samurai Sword in hand,_

_and told the two they were to stop that really dreadful band,_

_and when the two, they did refuse, with two almighty strokes,_

_you swiftly rid the heads off those two fine upstanding blokes!_

"_Well when the heads had fallen from the bodies to the floor,_

_you got your gloves and duct tape and secured them on once more!_

_And then you dragged them down the street and past the cricket club,_

_and walked right in the door of good old bobby's pub._

_Well you drank two shots of Vodka and smiled just for show,_

_then waltzed right out the door again, the bodies dragged in toe,_

_Out the front of the police, you left the smelly corpse,_

_to be found in the morning by senior sergeant—"_

"HOLD IT RIGHT THERE! YOU'VE GOT IT ALL WRONG!" Bellowed Lol, at last seemingly unable to take the singing any more. Barnaby froze midway through the line, then pouted, obviously upset about having been interrupted. Troy who was praying to every god he knew of in vain of some divine intervention preventing the interview tape from ever being called on in court had to resist the urge to jerk Barnaby down and into his seat like a petulant child. Still before he had to resist for too long, Barnaby climbed down by himself, picked up his chair and then resat in it, leaning forward expectantly as if nothing had happened. "For your information," Lol continued, "I actually liked their music, I have all of their records! No! I killed them because the other week, Roger was carrying my shopping in and had the nerve to ask me to do up his shoelace! The nerve!"

"And then?" Even Barnaby, as odd as he had been acting seemed to think there must be more to it than that.

"Then nothing! It was an awful thing to do, imagine that! Me, an old woman, doing up a twenty year old's shoelace just because he had his arms full of my shopping! Preposterous!"

Barnaby and Gavin looked at each other in disbelief.

"And Mr Dogood?" Barnaby asked.

"Well he would have done the same... And besides, he would have been devastated by Roger's death — it would have been too cruel to make him have to live with that."

"You're kidding me." Said Troy flatly.

"Do I look like this kind of person who 'kids' to you?" screeched Lol indignantly.

The two detectives glanced at each other again.

"Fine, Troy here'll draft a statement, and we'll bring it to you to sign." Said Barnaby, terminating the interview. Without further comment, they both rose and pushed their respective chairs back.

"How did you know it was her?" Asked Gavin as they left the room.

"Deductive logic, Troy." Said Barnaby brightly. I went snooping around and looked in all the rubbish bins along the street. In Lol's was a trench coat and boots, which of course is an evergreen amongst murderers. So then I looked around and saw a faint trail of blood leading up the steps to Lol's door, She perhaps didn't notice it, old age, bad eye sight you know. Then when I got inside, all I had to do was spy the outline of dust in her display cabinet that matched a sword, and I knew she was our killer."

"Brilliant." Said a stunned Troy, wondering if he'd misread all of his boss' shenanigans during the day.

"Of course that was no reason not to stop for Tea and biscuits." Barnaby continued happily, "Pity I didn't get to try out the Soufflé she'd made... Oh well, can't be helped."

Gavin groaned.

"Now then, Troy." Barnaby clapped him on the back, just about winding him, "You've got a confession statement to draw up, and I've got a funeral to get to." He tossed his jacket over his shoulder and strode towards the door.

"Oh, who's funeral?" enquired Gavin with interest, wondering if it was someone he knew.

Barnaby paused at the door and turned back, fixing Troy with an enigmatic smile.

"Mine." He said

_Case Closed_

* * *

Thank you anyone who's still reading by this point. This is one I wrote with my sister when we were high on coke... the soft drink, people, relax! Coca-Cola? Sugar highs? everyone remember that?! Well anyway, It's amazing the drivel that is created when my sister, myself and a bottle of cola come into proximity, and this is one of them. I'm actually really pleased with the story, except for a few places where the limericks where a little forced. But I'd love to hear what you thought of it.


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